Each poem is a widening lens of the world, an unburdening of the things we carry deep within ourselves. She relies on the durability and the persistence of nature. She finds beauty in dandelions and leaves. In the chilling lines of “A New National Anthem,” Limón wonders, “Perhaps / the truth is every song of this country/ has an unsung third stanza, something brutal / snaking underneath us … ” The only way Limón can face the overwhelming aspects of her existence is with her most personal comforts. “What if, instead of carrying / a child, I am supposed to carry grief?” she despairs in “The Vulture and the Body.” But Limón’s pain supersedes the physical through verse, her body becomes a simulacra of the political dread that has been sowed across the country.
Much of Limón’s pain originates in her body: her twisted spine, her inability to conceive.
With each poem in her new collection, The Carrying, Limón counterbalances her most paralyzing fears with her ability to find small twinges of hope. Just when you’re about to give up, you find a single pinprick in the dark, enough light to remind you that something’s out there. Ada Limón’s poetry is like staring into a cloudy night sky and searching desperately for any signs of a star.
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